Titan King: Ascension of the Giant Chapter 1387 The Hunger of Wolves

For Elara, the history lesson carried a deeply personal weight, like her own family chronicle.

The Stoneheart Horde's elders, who had journeyed down from the icy northern wastes, skipped the fairy tales at night. Instead, they shared grim accounts of endless winters. They warned the young ones about the gnawing hunger, the biting frost, and the shadowy predators that lurked in the blackness.

These tales had shaped Elara and Pallas from the start. They were forged to face the world's doom.

In her younger years, just hearing the stories failed to satisfy her. Elara would badger Orion without mercy, scrambling over him until the Giant King finally gave in and recounted the legends in his own words.

Those times shone like pure gold. Pallas, who often whimpered after rough games, would wipe away his tears and become an utter flatterer, praising Elara as "pretty and powerful" only to get her permission to join and hear their father's deep voice.

Elara's eyes shifted back to Rhazuun, her face turning stern.

"You view it as an apocalypse, Mage. Yet for a Bloodline Warrior driven by true ambition? The Dark Beast Tides weren't some catastrophe. They marked a prime hunting period. They offered the quickest, fiercest method to hone your edge and show you outshone the warrior beside you."

She swirled the remnants of her Goblin Fizz. "That route to strength got sealed more than ten years back. The hunting territories ran barren."

Real sorrow tinged her words. She understood that Dark Creatures hailed from the Emerald Dream Realm and that the Dusk Continent teemed with them still, yet she had come too late for the Stoneheart Horde's peak ascent. She had skipped the time when her father forged his seat amid turmoil. It felt as if she'd shown up to the feast right when the revelry ended.

"A fresh gateway swings wide now," Elara declared, her gaze sparkling. "A warzone broad enough for all to claim their share. So, Rhazuun, does a wolf pack starved for a decade shy from minor peril? Or do they drool in anticipation?"

She pressed on without awaiting his reply.

"Fear doesn't grip them. Excitement does. Pure joy surges through them. This goes beyond personal might; it's about inheritance. It's about locking in dominance for their kin across ages."

With a sweep of her hand toward the window, she took in the sprawl of the city underneath.

"You've spent too little time in Stoneheart City to grasp its pulsing core. The raw need in the arrivals escapes you. They're not simply seeking cover. They yearn to spill blood. They chase war honors. They aim to rewrite their destinies—and those of their sorry small groups—by stacking corpses amid your so-called 'apocalypse'."

Elara's insight cut like a blade. Where others spotted fugitives, she spotted fortune-seekers eager to mine riches from carnage.

"And let's not even touch on the Horde's rising youth," she went on, a sly grin tugging at her mouth. "The venom fed into their minds is beyond your grasp—tales of their sires' triumphs, of the conflicts that raised this stronghold. They see themselves as the heroes in this tale. War doesn't daunt them; it calls to them. They require it to demonstrate they're no mere echoes of their elders."

Her brothers came to mind. Kronos and Pallas played the roles of calm, logical heirs most days, but she saw through it. Hand them a blade, and they turned into wild fiends.

Pallas at the Youth Camp flashed in her memory. To claim the 'King of the Children' honor, he'd methodically thrashed every kid in the group until they yielded. Only when he grasped the unbridgeable divide with Elara did he halt his fury. That alone kept him from challenging her—sharp, self-preserving cunning.

"This shift spells doom for rival groups," Elara stated, reclining with utter assurance. "But for the Stoneheart Horde? It's merely fresh territory to claim."

Rhazuun fixed his stare on her. The woman he'd hoped to lure away turned out to be the top hunter among the Horde's upcoming elite. To Elara, the falling world posed no danger; it served as her private arena.

If a Demigod appears? Orion deals with it. All others? I smash them.

Rhazuun grew quiet, thoughts churning wildly.

Her words rang true.

The craving extended far beyond the Stoneheart Horde. Talented exiles from all races and clans poured into the city. True, some arrived for protection, drawn to the Giant King's refuge. Yet the bold souls? They flocked here since Orion stood as the continent's sole openly known Demigod. His presence turned Stoneheart City into the sole secure launchpad for strikes into the emerging realm.

It formed the pinnacle of daring ventures with massive payoffs.

"I... missed that angle," Rhazuun confessed softly. "I failed to see how the Giant King had turned into the continent's soul pillar. With him unyielding, the masses' resolve holds firm."

The epiphany struck the Arch Lord like thunder. Typically, one earns "spiritual guide" status only after dominating and binding the realm. The land remained splintered, but Orion gripped the leads without a single official grab. All simply... hung on his command.

Rhazuun regarded Elara anew. He needed to toss out his full mental assessment of the Stoneheart Horde.

"The fog in your mind lifts," Elara observed lightly, her voice playful. "Though fresh doubts brew in your stare."

"Your Highness, in that case—"

"Hold it." Elara lifted her palm, silencing him. "I'll spare you the words. One thing first: Me entering your Order to train beneath your Demigod? That's off the table forever."

A faint scowl crossed Rhazuun's features. This wasn't mere refusal; it belittled his god's worth.

"Don't give me that glare. I'm not scorning your Demigod," Elara replied, drumming a finger on the table. "Just consider my position. An Arch Lord this young. Do you truly believe I gained this strength by chance? Do you suppose I lack a mentor already?"

Rhazuun halted, the truth slamming into him hard. Naturally. She was a prodigy of horrors. No one like her bloomed alone. She already possessed support—support probably as daunting as the Order of the Dandelion.

He inclined his head gradually, his stance easing from persuader to attentive hearer.